What We May Be
by Nyiestra
Summary: A tragedy reveals a destructive side of Tycho that his friends have never seen before.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** What We May Be

**Author: **Jesina Dreis

**Summary:** A tragedy reveals a destructive side of Tycho that his friends have never seen before.

**Rating:** PG-13

**Warning: Violence, mild torture, and very sensitive subject matter.**

"_We know what we are, but know not what we may be." Hamlet_

**Part 1**

"They know where he is, Wedge!" Tycho exploded. "And they won't _do_ anything!"

"You know how this works, Tycho," Wedge said slowly. "There are other factors involved, other people involved." It wasn't like Tycho to act this way.

Not that Wedge could blame him after the events of the last few months.

"He's got a point, Wedge," Janson interjected. "These guys are dangerous. They killed how many agents already? Four, five?"

"Six," Tycho replied. "What are they waiting for?"

"I don't know; I'm not privileged to that information." Wedge moved the datapad in front of him to the corner of his desk and sat down, resting his arms on the surface. "I wish I knew; I wish I could tell you. But if neither Winter nor Iella will tell us _anything_, you know there's a good reason."

"Tell Hobbie that. I'm sure he'll understand." Wedge watched with concern as Tycho clenched and unclenched his fists.

"I'm not happy about this either." Wedge ran a hand through his hair. "But there's nothing I can do. It's out of my hands."

"So we just sit here and do nothing?"

Wedge frowned. "We wait, until there's something we _can_ do. He'll be all right."

"Do you really believe that?"

Wedge met his XO's ice-blue eyes. What could he say? That he'd read the reports on Cracken's agents' deaths? That the little that Cracken _had_ told him about the rebels left him with more doubts than assurances?

That Cracken had said that while he would do all he could, he shouldn't expect Hobbie's safe return?

What good would it do?

_No, I don't. Not for a second. But it'll kill me to admit that._ "I don't have a choice; I have to."

"That sounds like a no, Wedge." Janson was frowning, worry in his eyes. "Wedge?"

Wedge just shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know what to think. But I've never given up on anyone; I'm not about to start now." That much was true, at least.

He was saved from further questioning when the comm unit buzzed, though he was less than enthusiastic to learn the reason behind the interruption. "Antilles."

"Commander, if you could come to my office immediately?" There was an edge to General Cracken's voice that unnerved Wedge.

"What's this about, sir?"

"Just get here, Antilles."

"I'm with Captain Celchu and Lieutenant Janson at the moment." He was asking more because he was looking for Cracken to invite them along than because he was trying to get out of meeting with the Intelligence Director.

And the General picked up on the meaning in his words. "Bring them, please." There was a pause, and the words that followed actually frightened Wedge. "They should be here."

Wedge raised his eyes to meet first Janson's then Tycho's. "Yes, sir," he replied softly, standing and taking a deep breath.

"Wedge?" Tycho's voice was low; the angry tone from minutes earlier was gone.

"I don't know." That was a bald-faced lie. He knew exactly what this was about.

He just didn't want to.

--------------------

Tycho crossed his arms, leaning against the wall, avoiding looking at either his wife or Cracken. He refused to believe they couldn't do more than they were. He understood the need to act with caution, especially in circumstances like this. They'd worked with intelligence often enough in the past for him to gain at least an understanding of – if not an appreciation for – the need to follow procedure and take things slowly.

But he couldn't respect the decision not to act knowing that their failure to do so would guarantee a man's death.

"What's this about, General?" Wedge asked. Tycho watched his friend's gaze skip from Cracken to Winter to Iella and back again.

All three wore the same carefully blank expression. It had to be something they taught you when you first went to work for intelligence. Tycho wondered why he and the rest of the Rogues had never been taught that fine art. Probably because Cracken kept his tricks close to his chest the way a sabaac player did his cards.

"It's regarding Lieutenant Klivian."

"Have you finally decided to do something?" Tycho bit out, earning himself a glare from Wedge and a sigh from Winter. "Or are you finally ready to admit that you're leaving him to the rancors?"

To his surprise, Cracken didn't snap back or shout him down. The General just sat back down and folded his hands on the desktop. "You're out of line, Captain, but under the circumstances, I'll let it go."

At the Intelligence Director's words, Tycho went cold. "What circumstances?" Cracken didn't answer, so Tycho turned his gaze to his wife. He saw her flinch, most likely at the expression on his face, but didn't care at the moment. "What circumstances?"

A moment later he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Sit down." There was no anger in Wedge's voice, just tired resignation. "Sit down, and I'm sure he'll tell us. I doubt General Cracken called us here to play games." As he sat down, Tycho saw his CO shoot Cracken a warning look.

"I certainly have not." Cracken's right hand disappeared below the desk and when it reappeared, he was holding what appeared to be a holovid case. "I received this today; it was on my assistant's desk when she arrived this morning."

"What is it?" Tycho glanced quickly at Wedge, wondering if he'd really heard or just imagined the shaking in his friend's voice.

"I haven't watched it yet, though I'm fairly certain I know its contents." He lay it on the desk, looking at each of them in turn before returning his attention to Wedge. "I'd imagine you do as well, Commander."

Wedge nodded numbly, and Tycho watched him sink into a chair. "What's going on? What is it?"

"It's from the rebels." Winter's voice sent a chill down his spine.

Cracken spoke again. "It's entirely up to you if you wish to view it; I thought I ought to give you the choice."

Just then Janson spoke for the first time; Tycho had almost forgotten he was even in the room. "We can't very well make a decision unless we know what it is."

"The way we learned of the other agents' deaths was by receiving holovids of their executions," Winter said softly.

Tycho froze where he was; the meaning behind her words – and the tears he saw fill her eyes – was readily apparent. He swallowed hard, not trusting himself to speak; he wasn't sure what words might come out if he tried to.

Wedge saved him from the need to reply. "I'm staying." A moment later Wes said the same, and Tycho only nodded.

He could see Iella's hands shaking as she placed the disk in the player and saw her finger hesitate over the power button. She stepped backward as the screen came to life, and his breath caught in his throat when his friend appeared on the screen.

Hobbie was sitting upright in a chair that looked ready to give under his weight. He didn't move, just stared straight ahead, never blinking. He gave no sign of seeing the holocamera recording him, no indication that he heard the Trandoshan guard standing beside him.

"_Move." Tycho heard the guttural growl just as he was shoved forward, shoulder smashing against the wall. As his step faltered, he felt someone grab his shirt – what was left of it, anyway – before he was literally thrown into the room where the other prisoners were held. "Madame is not pleased."_

The lizard-like guard – _executioner_, Tycho corrected in his mind – backhanded Hobbie. The ex-Rogue fell sideways, hitting the ground without making so much as a whimper, while the chair fell in the other direction, coming apart with a crash.

_Tycho's head jerked as the clawed hand connected with his skull. Pain echoed through his mind but he didn't move, didn't blink, didn't cry out. He heard the guard snarl at him to move, heard the whine of the blaster near his head._

As he watched the Trandoshan haul Hobbie to his feet – not that it looked like the man could stand – and pin him to the wall, scaly hand around his throat, Tycho could almost feel his own back pressed against the rocky wall, feel the sharp edges digging into his skin, feel the tips of the guard's claws graze his throat.

Shaking his head against the images that assaulted him, he fixed his eyes on the screen, staring at Hobbie's emotionless expression. There was no hint of pain in his wide-open eyes; only the slight movement of his chest under the torn, bloodstained shirt suggested that he was even still alive.

Still holding the pilot against the wall, the Trandoshan drew a blaster and pressed the muzzle against Hobbie's forehead. Tycho watched the Trandoshan tighten his grip on the blaster, saw a little blood drip down to soak Hobbie's shirt, probably from the alien's claws piercing his skin. But the Ralltiirian didn't flinch, and Tycho uttered a silent prayer that he was too far gone to know what was coming.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

Winter looked away as the Trandoshan pulled the trigger. This was the sixth execution she, Iella, and Airen had seen in the last week; she couldn't bear to watch another, especially not when the dying man was someone she'd known and cared about as long as Hobbie.

When she allowed her eyes to return to the screen, she caught just a glimpse of his body on the ground before the image cut out. The first to move or speak was Janson, jumping to his feet and darting out of the office. Wedge hesitated, looking between the door and Tycho, but went after Janson when she nodded, before turning her attention to her husband.

She knelt by his chair, placing a hand on his knee, as Cracken and Iella left the room to give them some time alone. "Tycho?"

He stared past her, a tear slipping down down his cheek. She reached up to wipe it away, but he caught her hand. "Leave me alone."

She started at his reaction, though she really should have expected it. "Tycho…"

He pushed her away from him roughly and as he stood, she fell back, hitting her head on the desk. She sat on the floor for a second, a little stunned, rubbing the back of her head. Then, scrambling to her feet, she went after him and grabbed his arm just as he reached the door. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sure your apology means a lot to him." Then he shook her hand off and left.

Watching him go, she dropped into the chair he'd vacated, burying her face in her hands. He had every right to be angry… at her, at Cracken, at NRI. She was.

She raised her head, wiping away the tears and looked toward the door as the General walked in. "He never had a chance."

"Didn't he? If we had gone in the moment we found out—" With her eyes, she pleaded for him to… what? Tell her they could have done something but didn't? Tell her there really wasn't any way they could have saved him? Neither answer would bring him back.

"Every person we sent would have ended up the same way. If Ydraz had been willing to publicly allow us to help, it might have been a different story. But they weren't, and you know there was nothing we could do." It was typical Cracken, but, as much as he hated to admit it, he was right.

She did know. But that sure as Sith wasn't going to help Hobbie. And it wasn't going to help Janson, or Wedge, or Tycho. She glanced toward the door, wondering if they were all right.

Wondering if Tycho was all right.

"I need to go."

He nodded. "I'm going to speak to Mon Mothma about holding a memorial service for all the men and women who died on Ydraz. I'll let you know what we decide."

"Thank you." She stood slowly, glancing toward the silent screen, wishing she had even the minutest hope to hold onto that he wasn't really gone.

But she didn't.

--------------------

Tycho looked up as the door opened and Winter came in. "Hi," she said softly, setting her bag on the bench by the door.

He didn't speak, just stood and headed toward the kitchen, turning his back to her. He was in too much pain, and too angry, to speak to her.

Hobbie was dead. He glanced toward the calendar display on the wall. Four days. Four days since Wes had shown up and told them Hobbie was missing.

Three since NRI had learned where he was.

Two since Winter had told him they weren't going after him.

One since he'd given up arguing with her.

_And now… _Winter's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Tycho?" He rested his hands on the counter, refusing to turn, to face her, to talk to her. She didn't seem to get the hint, though – or she didn't care. "Tycho, please, talk to me." He felt her hand graze his shoulder and jerked away as if her touch burned.

"Leave me alone," he growled, spinning to face her.

She blinked, recoiling, hurt flashing through her eyes for a brief second before the NRI mask slid back into place. "No. Tycho, I know you're hurting, but shutting me out won't do any good."

"I'm not so sure," he spat at her, and this time he saw, with just the slightest twinge of satisfaction, tears spring to her eyes.

"Tycho?"

"Did you watch that?" He took a step toward her, and she backed away from him until she couldn't go any further. "Do you think he even knew what was happening?" Her eyelids fluttered rapidly and she looked a little scared. "Do you think he was afraid?" He moved forward quickly, pressing his arm across her chest and shoving her up against the refrigeration unit. As his fingertips brushed her throat, he heard her whisper his name.

"Tycho, you're hurting me."

"You hurt Hobbie," he said coldly, stepping back. As he moved away, her hand strayed to her neck and she stared at him, shock and even more fear on her face. "You knew that if you didn't do anything, he would die. And you did nothing. You didn't even try!"

"There was nothing we could do!" The tears in her eyes started to spill over, tracking down her cheeks. "Tycho, I know this hurts. He was my friend too."

"Then how could you turn your back on him?" How dare she stand there and pretend she knew how he felt?

"It wasn't my decision to make!"

"You didn't even try!"

"I did everything I could!" She was shouting now, openly crying. "I wish I could have done more, but it was out of my hands. Airen wouldn't send more people to die for a lost cause and I couldn't ask him to."

"Shut up!" Tycho snapped, striking her across the face with the back of his hand. As she stumbled backward under the force of the blow, staring at him in shock, he froze in place, hand still raised.

--------------------

Winter barely felt the sting as he hit her, too stunned by what he'd done to feel much of anything. Raising her hand gingerly to her face, she pressed herself back against the wall. "Tycho?" She whispered his name, afraid to do any more than that.

Staring at her in shock, he froze in place, hand still raised. "I…" He reached out to her but she shrank back into the corner; it was the farthest away from him that she could get. "Winter…"

She shook her head, feeling more tears run down her cheeks, but he stepped toward her anyway. "Winter, I—" Before he could say any more, she ducked under his outstretched arm and ran from the kitchen, locking herself in the refresher. Leaning against the wall, she sank down to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest, then ran her fingertips over her cheek and up toward her eye. The skin where he'd struck her was warm to the touch and stung, already starting to swell.

She tilted her head back, drawing a shaky breath and willing herself to stop crying. She'd seen Tycho angry, been on the receiving end of more than one display of his temper. But he'd never so much as raised a hand to her.

Yelling she could handle; Force knew she did her fair share. But…

Closing her eyes, she could see his face in front of her. She could see the exact moment he snapped. She could see his expression change as he raised his hand, see the anger flashing in his eyes.

Not that she could fault him for being angry.

When she'd stopped shaking, she reached for the sink board and pulled herself up. The moment she looked in the mirror, her eyes went straight to the bruise beginning to form. It would take some kind of makeup job to hide that.

For a moment, she wondered if she should bother. She could call Wedge, tell him what happened. He'd believe her, she knew that much. And then he could talk to Tycho, and…

No. She met her own eyes in the mirror once more. Wedge had enough to deal with, and he probably had his hands full with Janson. She could handle herself fine, and Tycho wasn't exactly the abusive type. "Just a one-time thing," she mumbled. "That's all." No sense causing problems over something like this.

Besides, Tycho was right. She should have done more. There had to be something else she could have said or done, someone else she could have talked to. But she hadn't done anything, just let Cracken convince her that saving Hobbie was a lost cause. And now he was dead.

Maybe they wouldn't have been able to save him. But they should have tried.

"_Turn your back… didn't even try."_ His words echoed through her mind. They hadn't tried hard enough. They hadn't done anything but sit back and wait for the holovid to arrive. _"Every person we sent… nothing we could do."_ She pushed Cracken's voice out of her mind.

Tycho was right. She _was_ partly to blame for Hobbie's death. And if a bruise or two, she rubbed the back of her head where she'd hit it on the desk, were her penance for it, well, she could live with it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

"Hey."

"Hey." Wes shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Can I come in?"

Wedge stepped back, nodding, concern in his eyes. "You all right?"

"Just didn't feel like being alone. "Do you mind?"

"Not if you'll have a drink; I was starting to feel like an alcoholic anyway. I hate drinking alone."

"So does—" Wes's words died in his throat. "So did Hobbie." He swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall as he walked into the sitting room and draped his jacket over the back of the nearest chair. "Yeah, I'll have a drink."

He watched Wedge pour two water glasses full of Whyren's Reserve, taking one gratefully. Sipping it, he closed his eyes as the liquid burned its way down his throat. "Did you watch it? The whole thing?"

"Couldn't take my eyes off it."

"Me either." Wes sat down, holding the glass in front of him, staring down into it. "You think he knew? He didn't look really…"

"Conscious?" Wedge shook his head. "No. I don't. He was pretty far gone. He was alive, but I don't think he was aware anymore."

"What… what do you think they did to him? I mean…"

"I don't know." Wedge took a long drink and set his glass down. "And I'd rather not think about it. It won't do any good."

"I shouldn't have watched that." Wes put his own drink on the table. "I can't get it out of my head."

Wedge came to sit next to him. "Me either. But if you hadn't, you wouldn't believe it, and you'd kick yourself until you saw it with your own eyes."

"I know. I still don't believe it."

"I know."

"There had to be something they could have done, Wedge. But they didn't do anything. They just let him die and didn't try to stop it."

Wedge took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Wes, at the level they're dealing with, it's all about acceptable losses. Hobbie… comparing losing him to the number of people they _would_ have lost if they tried to save him, that was acceptable. It makes me sick, but Cracken and Ackbar and the others – they have to make these decisions every day. As much as it hurts, I can't tell them they were wrong. If Cracken _had_ sent people to try to get him out, and they'd been killed – which they probably would have – I wouldn't be able to go to their families and say that their deaths were worth it."

"He's crashed so many times," Wes murmured. "I never expected his luck to last forever." It felt strange to say this, to admit that out of all of them, he'd secretly thought Hobbie would be the first of them to go. "But I didn't think it would happen like this."

"It shouldn't have happened like this. Your squad shouldn't have been there."

"The shot that hit him – I never even saw where it came from. I still don't know. And then he went down… Wedge, I had to get them out of there. I didn't know what happened, and I couldn't get a squadron of green pilots get killed."

"You did the only thing you could," Wedge said softly. "His death isn't your fault."

"Then why does it feel that way?"

"Because you always try to figure out what you could have done differently, what little thing might have changed the outcome entirely."

"You do that?" Wes asked.

"All the time. Every single pilot I've lost, when I have to inform their families, I spend a long time sitting in front of a datapad trying to figure out if they really had to die. And I can usually find five things I could have done. But nothing I should have done."

Wes was silent for a moment, mulling that over. "I don't know if I could do it."

"You could. If you had to."

"I don't want to have to." Wes set his glass down once more and stood up. "Wedge, I don't want to instruct anymore. I want to fly again."

"I don't know if Command will agree to that."

"I don't care, Wedge!" He turned away, staring through the window at the lights of Coruscant. "I don't give a kriff what Command wants, Wedge. My best friend is dead because of Command!" He spat out the last words, not bothering to try to veil his disdain.

Wes felt Wedge slip an arm around his shoulders, but didn't turn to face him. "I'll do what I can," the other man told him gently.

Feeling a few tears slide down his cheeks, Wes just nodded, watching as speeder headlights danced through the night.

-------------------------

Tycho downed the glass of whiskey in his hand with one swallow. The look on Winter's face… it made him sick every time he thought about it. He'd hit women before – only a couple of times, but he had. But it was always self-defense, never in anger.

And never, _ever_ a woman he'd loved.

He stared out at the dark night. Over the low howl of wind outside, he could occasionally hear his wife moving about their bedroom. He'd only seen her twice since… since she'd run out of the kitchen. Once when she'd come out of the refresher and headed into the bedroom, and the other when she'd come out to get a drink of water. She wouldn't speak to him, wouldn't look at him except to glance away when he looked toward her.

And she wouldn't let him apologize.

Not that he knew exactly what to say. He shouldn't have hit her; that was inexcusable. But there was still just a small part of him that was convinced Winter deserved it. Her, and Cracken, and whoever else whose decision it had been to leave Hobbie to die.

Ever since he'd joined the Alliance, he'd watched people die because of bad Intelligence and ridiculous decisions about who was worth saving and who they could afford to lose. It sickened him that she was a part of that now.

He wondered how Cracken would deal with sitting in a room somewhere with a blaster to his head, while the New Republic government decided it would cost them less to let him die than to try to save him. He wondered if Winter would have said the same if it had been Cracken instead of Hobbie, if she'd have fought more for her boss's life.

Maybe Starfighter Command just didn't matter that much to Command, to Cracken… to Winter. They were the expendable ones, after all, the ones that got sent on these crazy missions. No one ever expected them to come back.

Tycho was willing to bet that there were a few in the New Republic who were just a little bit disappointed each time the Rogues made it back. He wondered if Winter was one of them.

Walking out onto the balcony, he set his glass down on the railing. Time to stop drinking.

He wanted to apologize to her, but knew that if he tried, his words would shift away from "I'm sorry I hit you" and toward "I'm sorry you work for such a nerfherder as Cracken." Nah, 'nerfherder' was too mild a word for the general.

Leaning over the railing, he looked down to the walkways and stores ten, fifteen levels below. "Long way to fall," he mumbled, stepping up onto the lower bar of the railing.

"Get down." He didn't know how long he'd been up there when Winter's voice – and her hand on his shoulder – dragged him out of his thoughts. He did as she told him, allowing her to push him toward the door. Dropping into a chair, he watched as she closed and locked it before picking up the whiskey bottle and the glass she'd brought in from outside and taking them to the kitchen.

She returned a moment later. "Why don't you come to bed? You're tired… and drunk." He didn't miss the dismayed look that crossed her face. "Everything will be better in the morning."

He was on his feet almost instantly, and within seconds had her backed up against the wall. Gripping her arm tightly, he hissed at her, "Sith it will! One of my best friends is _dead_. That doesn't go away overnight." He glared at her, feeling sick at the fact that being with NRI had changed her so much that she could even say something like that. _Better in the morning._

"You're hurting my arm."

Her words snapped him out of his angry stupor and he let go quickly, stepping back as she rubbed her arm where a bruise was already starting to show. It was only then that he looked, really looked, at her face and saw the damage he'd done earlier.

"Force," he whispered, reaching out to touch her. "I'm… I'm sorry, Winter. I didn't—"

She cut him off, shaking her head, and pushed his hand away. "You were upset, and angry, and you had every right to be. Let's just forget it, and get some rest."


End file.
